


The Crime of Playing God

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Depression, Gen, Poetry Format(?), Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 05:15:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17595272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: It feels like a heart attack.





	The Crime of Playing God

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide is never the answer.  
> hotline number, if needed:  
> 1-800-273-8255  
> you're not alone.  
> list of numbers for those outside of the usa:  
> http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html

Kyle writes a suicide note  
and plans to end it all with no regrets.

He buys candles for the hell of it  
though they aren’t a part of his death  
He gives his friends chocolates at lunch  
Valentine’s day is coming up  
soon  
so no one questions it.

He doesn’t know if he’s okay with that  
He doesn’t know if he’s okay with anything  
anymore  
but no one asks  
so he supposes it doesn’t matter.

He logs onto Facebook and reads  
the statuses some of his friends have posted  
He’s fallen out of love with it  
It is just a blip on his radar  
something that lingers in the background  
Someone asked him  
once—  
he’s pretty sure it was his brother—  
why he didn’t log in anymore.

“I just don’t want to,”  
he’d said  
and that was that.

But that is over.

And maybe everything else is  
too?

He stares at the rope he keeps around  
He got it for Halloween when he was a kid.

He wants a gun  
Would rather a gun  
Really  
because it’s harder to fail—  
or so he assumes  
He doesn’t really know  
he’s never really done this before.

But it’s like Stan said with his decision  
to join the Army:  
“it just feels right.”

It’s like this gut feeling that tells him  
this is what he’s supposed to do.

Kyle didn’t get it then  
but he gets it now.

It’s weird how things can change  
in just a few months.

He fumbles with the suicide note  
It trips in his fingers  
crackles in the quiet of his room  
He stares at it  
like it’s the method  
and not the rope  
He usually cries at the thought of death  
but he can’t bring his eyes to weep  
He can’t bring his brain to hurt  
or his stomach to ache  
He can’t feel very much at all.

Except it hurts a lot.

He never was very good with pain.

Kyle calls himself a coward  
The rope is thick in his hands  
sturdily built and sickeningly right  
in the most painful way imaginable  
it hurts  
it’s unbearable  
it’s nothing he needs but everything he wants  
and he hates it  
he hates it more than he hates himself  
he just—

He wants it to stop.

It hurts a lot.

He situates the rope and sets the note  
carefully down on his desk  
folded into one of those lame fortune tellers  
It’s horribly disgusting  
a joke in itself  
but he can’t help it  
It made him laugh  
_It made him laugh_  
because he refuses to cry  
Distantly  
Kyle tries to convince himself it’s alright  
it’s just not alright enough to try.

Because it’s not.

Nothing ever is.

He hurts so bad.

It feels like a heart attack.

He already can’t breathe  
and he hasn’t done anything yet.

Kyle learned to tie a noose in middle school  
Not for any particular reason  
It was just something he’d picked up  
He wonders if the fascination of the macabre  
was some sort of warning?  
Maybe he should have known  
Maybe he should have picked up on his  
fucked-up-ness sooner  
and maybe he’d have a way of…

He doesn’t know.

He never knew  
but he doesn’t right now  
mostly.

(It hurts so bad.)

He pretends he’s not doing anything  
Even as he steps up  
even as he fondles the rope with shaking fingers  
even as adrenaline pumps through his veins  
he pretends he’s innocent  
in the crime of taking his own life.

In the crime of being in control.

In the crime of playing God.

He craves that more than anything  
So deeply in his bones  
it aches  
It’s a hunger that scowls and scrapes him empty  
The emptier he is  
the less he eats.

Kyle can’t see  
He wipes at his eyes and wonders  
about what he’s doing  
Asks himself why  
because it seems fitting  
Of all the things he could be doing  
why?

But then the question of _why not?_

And he can see.

It hurts so much.

It’s unbearable  
agonizing pain.

He gives—

The door opens  
Kyle didn’t hear the knock  
He rarely does  
these days  
and his door doesn’t have a lock  
Delayed  
Everything is delayed  
He turns  
with tired eyes and a growling brain that  
wants to fill with static and rain  
and peace and bliss  
and something other than pain  
dear God  
the pain  
please…

“What are you doing?”  
asks Ike  
He’s only thirteen  
He doesn’t deserve this  
_He doesn’t deserve this._

Those eyes of his are so wide  
so afraid  
like he…

There’s no analogy that compares  
_Like he saw a ghost_  
_Like he witnessed a murder_  
_Like he almost found his brother’s dead body._

“What are you doing?”  
he asks again  
more frantic  
His shoulders tense like he wants to look away  
but he stares unblinking  
Kyle feels guilt  
It’s different from the ache  
and he grasps it  
loves it  
wants it to stay  
He wants the pain to go away  
Most of all  
he doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m hanging my clothes,”  
Kyle chokes  
like that makes it better  
Like that makes it okay  
Like the dehumanization of himself is moral  
He wants it to be  
so it must be.

“You aren’t clothing,”  
Ike almost yells  
His pitch heightens  
and his voice cracks  
He’s afraid  
They both are  
Again  
he repeats  
“You aren’t clothing.”

Kyle loops his wrist through the noose  
pulling down until it circles his arm  
The pressure is nice  
welcomed in the rest of it all  
He wishes for a few things  
but they are muddled and unimportant  
He just wants the pain to stop  
He wants Ike to go away  
It would be so much easier if Kyle never existed  
It would take the _work_ out of the _dirty work_  
making it only _dirty_.

Ike screams for their parents  
Kyle didn’t know they were home  
He guesses he should have  
imagined this happening  
But of all the things  
he didn’t predict this  
He pulls his arm down harder  
perching to sit on the chair he pulled  
away from his desk earlier  
The rope digs deep.

Footsteps thunder up the stairs  
His mother enters first  
The noise she makes is confused and hurt  
and Kyle knows she understands what’s going on  
She runs over  
collects him in her arms  
says something to him that he doesn’t understand  
He just listens  
feeling his body held by his mother  
His wrist is still clenched in the teeth of the rope.

He gives in.

He cries into her bosom  
grabs at her shirt with his free hand  
asks himself why  
Why  
_Why_  
would you do this?

But it hurts so much  
It hurts so  
so much.

“Please let me die,”  
he sobs  
gross and wet with tears  
“Please, I want to die.”

They’re speaking  
but he doesn’t fully know who _they_ are  
He talks louder  
talks over them  
mantras of what he wants to do to himself  
pleas and begging to let him just do it.

“Let me go,”  
says Kyle  
“ _Let me go_.”

“No, bubbeh, no,”  
says his mother  
and those are the first words  
from her that he understands  
She repeats them  
She works at the knot with one hand  
combs her fingers through his hair with the other  
He still grips her in a way that feels contrary  
Antagonistic  
Defiant.

The pain won’t leave him alone.

The pain won’t  
leave him alone.

The pain  
won’t leave  
him alone.

“ _It’s torture_ ,”  
he says  
" _Make it stop_."

“We’ll get you help, Kyle,”  
his mother tells him.

He cries harder when his father unties the rope.

Kyle’s hand is free.

He does not want it to be  
but what he wants isn’t right.

**Author's Note:**

> I REPEAT:  
> Suicide is never the answer.  
> hotline number, if needed:  
> 1-800-273-8255  
> you're not alone.  
> list of numbers for those outside of the usa:  
> http://www.suicide.org/suicide-hotlines.html
> 
>  
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome.


End file.
